


Ghosts that we knew

by theaa



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2019-04-19
Packaged: 2020-01-16 11:40:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18520765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theaa/pseuds/theaa
Summary: Jaime Lannister returns to Winterfell, and finds Sansa Stark much changed from the girl he knew.Canon compliant, set post 8X01.





	Ghosts that we knew

A fire crackles in the corner of Sansa Stark’s study, and the air inside is warm and heavy. Jamie can feel the fingers in his hand being coaxed back to life, the frostbite beginning to fade. His Lannister robes are damp with the snow, almost steaming in the hot room. He wishes he had a northern fur to cover them with - the red and gold of his armour hasn’t been dimmed by his ride north. It glimmers in the firelight, completely out of place. Jaime’s throat feels dry when he swallows.

The oak door opens with a click and the new Lady of Winterfell strides in to sit behind the writing desk. Her red hair is styled in the northern way, flowing down her back – none of the intricate southern braiding he’d seen her with last. Her dress is thick and grey coloured wool, almost dour. And yet, it suits her. When she looks at him her eyes are ice blue, and so very cold. Colder than the snow outside, he thinks. Full of mistrust.

He expects her to speak and focuses on holding her eye contact. She is all pale skin, high cheekbones and sculpted eyebrows. Jaime knows from reports that the years they’ve been apart have not been kind to her, but looking upon her face now you could be forgiven for thinking otherwise. She is lovely to look at. Although he has never been with anyone apart from Cersei he knows a beautiful woman when he sees one, and Sansa Stark is truly Winterfell’s northern rose.

She does not speak, only stares, which Jaime takes as his queue.

‘Lady Brienne showed me to your chambers, my Lady.’

Sansa blinks slowly, coolly. ‘I know. She informed me of your request of a private audience.’ She pauses. ‘Why are you here, Ser? Have you come to bargain on your sister’s behalf? Jon is not here to listen to your pleading, I should add.’

‘Cersei did not send me.’

‘She knows that you’re here?’

‘She’ll guess, yes, but she probably doesn’t like it.’

Sansa’s eyes narrow. ‘Whether she sent you or not, Jon is busy, he’s not here to receive you just now.’

Jaime shrugs. Here in Winterfell he feels the most detached he’s ever been from The Red Keep and Cersei’s burning hot gaze. He feels like his strings have been cut, and whilst he’s sure the hard impact of the fall will eventually hit him, for now the sensation of plummeting downwards is the closest thing to freedom he’s felt in a while.

‘I’m here to pledge my sword against the Long Night.’

And now he catches Sansa’s eyes widening, a tiny amount, until she hastily schools her expression.

‘And why should I believe you, Ser?’

And it’s true. The eldest Stark daughter should have no reason to trust him, the oldest son from a family who held her captive in a foreign city, who murdered her beloved father and siblings, who stood by whilst she was beaten and belittled constantly by people who saw her only for her political value and exploited her for it.

‘You have no reason. Only that I am here and intend to stay until I can be made use of.’

‘And what need would the North have of a Lannister knight, a Kingslayer no less?’ There is a waspish quality to her voice, not unlike the tone that frequently creeps into Cersei’s voice. It’s clear she has no intention of placing her trust in him. It seems Sansa’s southern upbringing has taught her a few lessons, after all. He admires her for it.

‘Cersei intends to betray you. She has no thought of helping the war against the dead. She has no honour.’

To her credit, Sansa’s face changes little when he tells her. She already knows this, he guesses. Everyone else has expected the worst from Cersei for years. It seems it was only him that held out that sliver of hope for so long.

Xxx

The Northmen do not take to a Lannister amongst their midst kindly. It seems they can take an ex-Baratheon-loyal smuggler as their King’s hand and a Wildling as their King’s most trusted counsellor, but when the madness of this war results in a Lannister sharing their bread and water, it is a step too far. Riled up already by Daenerys and her dragons, who they cannot openly despise, they all too often aim it at him instead.

Jaime cannot say that he blames them. Mostly, he avoids them.

The Lady of Winterfell, as he must remind himself to call her – not just little Sansa Stark or Cersei’s cruel nickname of Little Dove – has provided him with a great fur to guard against the Northern winds. It’s a kind gesture, one that had taken him by surprise when he’d seen the cloak folded on the bed of the small cramped room he’d been allocated. He pulls it against himself now and watches from the corner of the courtyard as Sansa heads towards the Godswood.

She is striding. It is the only way she moves these days, it seems. Purposeful. Determined. She has grown of course, and even under the plain clothing Sansa’s towering height and willowy figure are clear. Her face is passive, set, and gives nothing away. It’s a practiced expression.

If Jaime had lived her experiences he’s not sure he’d still be able to pray, old gods or no. He gets the feeling she is not one to cling to faith. Perhaps she has other intentions in the Godswood – a rendezvous perhaps. He follows her.

He only makes it a few yards into the wood until Sansa pauses and whirls around. He doesn’t even bother trying to hide himself and stops along with her, several feet back, the dusty snow covered wood floor between them.

‘My Lord, are you following me?’

‘The Seven seem to have failed me in this life, My Lady. I was wondering if your old Gods could do me any better.’

‘Forgive me if I don’t believe you are such a godly man, Ser.’

Jamie laughs dryly. ‘And forgive me for thinking the same, My Lady. Faith is hard to hold onto these days, is it not?’

‘I would pray alone, My Lord.’

‘Indeed. As would I, if I still prayed.’ Sansa’s unreadable face goads him. She is too much like Cersei and not enough. Not enough at all. He should not risk his place at Winterfell, but he hasn’t conversed properly with anyone for the last day – Brienne avoids him, her interactions only polite, as if she too can’t accept him here in her new home after everything he has done.

Ah yes, everything he’s done. A smile tugs at his lips. ‘It seems strange that I am still here, sometimes, when I consider the gods. They must be very forgiving; don’t you think? To not smite us down when we have sinned so much?’

‘I do not think on it for myself,’ is her flat reply.

‘Really? I heard you murdered your last husband. Was that not a sin?’

Sansa’s face hardens instantly. ‘Ramsey Bolton deserved what he got.’

He waves a hand. ‘No doubt. I understand the desire to kill your enemies, My Lady.’

Sansa purses her lips. ‘And who are your enemies, Ser?’

‘The Dead. Other than that, I’m no longer sure,’ Jaime admits.

‘Indeed.’ She does not believe him.

Sansa continues to watch him, but she doesn’t try to dismiss him, or distract him. He had thought she was using the Godswood as a cover to meet someone and his curiosity had been piqued, but he forgets where he is. This is Winterfell and it is hers. All the people here stand with her, are loyal to their mistress. It’s him that’s the outsider.

Perhaps the Godswood affords her a measure of peace and quiet amongst her responsibilities. He can understand that, at least.

He bids her goodbye. She only looks half surprised at his sudden exit.

Xxx

The Targaryen girl, or Queen Daenerys, as he should call her, and Jon Snow, the Almost-King-in–The-North, graciously give him an audience. The Silver Queen is not happy to welcome him, hissing about her dead father. It strikes him that she does not look so very different, straight-backed and glaring at Winterfell’s head table, than her father used to. He flounders, just for a second. To his surprise, it is Sansa’s clear voice that rings out in his favour.

‘We need allies, and one has presented himself. We need every man we can get, do we not? Ser Jaime, you are welcome at Winterfell.’

Jon looks across at her from the table, his eyebrow slightly arched, but he says nothing, only nods. Daenerys’s jaw tightens, but it is not her home to throw him out of, so his safety is bought. For now. He had said once that Sansa Stark was his last chance for honour. Maybe he should have ended the sentence at ‘Sansa Stark is my last chance.’ He clings to it. To her.

Later, Jon provides a more satisfying reaction to news of Cersei’s betrayal. His face turns ashen. They do a lot of talking. All of it is tiresome, and seemingly pointless. Whichever way they look at it they are, in Tyrion’s words, indeed ‘fucked.’ Daenerys looks furious and sad at the same time, and by the end of the meeting Jaime is sick of the word ‘dragon’ and Jon’s tendency for melodramatic turns of phrases. ‘The Long Night is coming’ he repeats – and honestly, Jaime preferred the old Stark words instead. But still, he is here, making good on his promise, and he intends to stay.

Tyrion makes no attempt to hide his delight at Jaime’s presence in the North, but Jaime is a coward. He’s always known deep down about this facet of his personality, but his refusal to talk fully with his brother is further proof, especially regarding Cersei. Tyrion assumes he’s forsaken his twin entirely, but Jaime is here to honour a pledge he made, first and foremost. Cersei is another thing entirely. He has always shared his sister with her plans, ambitions and machinations. It is these that he has forsaken – his sister, the golden haired driven woman he used to so admire, is a separate being. And she’s not quite so easy to leave behind.

In the war meetings Sansa sits at the table and says little. At first this surprises him, but after a few minutes he recognises the tension in the room. Sansa does not look at Daenerys fully, even when she is speaking. And Jon she cuts glances at when he’s looking the other way. He catches a maelstrom of emotions in those few unguarded seconds – worry, admiration, and something else he recognises – something he last saw in Cersei’s eyes. Betrayal.

Jon has bent the knee to the Dragon Queen and Sansa Stark is not pleased about it. The North’s independence, the independence Robb Stark fought for against Jaime at Whispering Wood, the independence Robb Stark died for – it’s been abandoned with just a few words by her bastard brother.

She blinks and the look is gone.

When the meeting adjourns he follows Sansa back to her chambers. She pretends not to notice until he draws up at her door. She turns. ‘Can I help you, Ser?’

There is still so much hatred directed towards him in those few polite words. It simmers underneath every careful measured syllable.

‘I was once a member of a Queensguard. I used to guard the Queen’s door at night. I was of the mind I could do the same again.’

Sansa’s eyes narrow. ‘I’m not a Queen, Ser, so I have no need of a Queensguard. Besides, I have Lady Brienne.’

Jaime raises an eyebrow. ‘Not a Queen? If Jon has bent the knee to Daenerys, surely that leaves the position of the North open, no? We’ve had the war of the Five Kings. Perhaps it is time for the war of the Three Queens.’

Her lips purse. ‘There are more important issues at hand for now, don’t you think, My Lord?’

She doesn’t deny it. Not outright. Jaime admires that. Perhaps it something she has thought about, indulged for a few fleeting seconds in her mind, and then roughly pushed aside. Of course she would not risk the precarious stability they have achieved.

‘Certainly. An army of the dead can rearrange priorities like that. But my services are still on offer, if you require them.’

There is a long pause before Sansa nods once. ‘If I require your assistance, I’ll let you know.’ And then she disappears into her room, behind the solid wooden door. Jaime has a sudden image of her siting before the fire, brushing out her long auburn hair, burning gold at the ends – as gold as Cersei’s.

He hovers a second at her door and then leaves to go find some ale.

Xxx

Brienne must vouch for him, or some other miraculous event, because after breakfast the next day Sansa quietly informs him that he may guard over her chambers the coming night. She pulls him aside to tell him so, her voice low and quiet, as if she is allowing something truly terrible. He wonders what has worried her, for something clearly has. Jaime has watched as the cool relationship between Sansa and Daenerys has frosted over even further during his stay. Perhaps she fears a stroke of Targaryen madness. He does not blame her.

Somewhere, he hopes Catelyn Stark is pleased he has finally kept his word. It has taken him long enough, he muses wryly. He always was a slow learner, but this – guarding Sansa Stark, and yes, maybe dying in her bastard brother’s charge on the army of the dead – those things he can do.

The day is full of war counsels. At one point, whilst trying to think of ways to convince Cersei to join them, Daenerys glances pointedly over at him. Jaime raises his good hand in defence.

‘Whatever you are thinking, you can abandon it, Your Grace. Cersei practically banished me herself. I am dead to her. If you think harming me in any way will convince her, you’re wrong. It will only anger her further.’

Besides him, Sansa shifts in her seat. ‘Ser Jaime is our ally now. We need all the allies we can get, as I have said. We must trust each other.’

Jon gives her a small admiring smile. Daenerys’s pursed lips are obvious. Jaime is too surprised at Sansa’s rare contribution to react.

Later, when he arrives at her door to start his watch, Sansa comes out to greet him.

‘Ser Jaime, thank you.’

He blinks at the use of his name. It’s soft on her tongue, somehow still on the side of formality, despite the lack of manners it suggests. He’s used to the rasp of it on Cersei’s tongue, whether she is angry with him or beneath him. Hardly anyone calls him Jaime these days, save his siblings. Hearing it on Sansa’s lips now is a jarring experience.

‘It’s I that should be thanking you. Perhaps if you hadn’t intervened Daenerys would be feeding me to her dragons right now in an attempt to win my sister over.’

‘Her Grace does seem to prefer immediate action in these things, it seems.’ She pauses. ‘Brienne will relieve you later.’

She leaves him in the corridor. Jaime’s good hand drifts towards the sword strapped to his belt and rests there, ready. Perhaps he will become a Queenslayer too. What will they call him then?

Xxx

It doesn’t matter that he’s seen the writhing decaying things that Jon bought back from beyond the wall himself. Ensconced in Winterfell, the dead still seem very far away. Not to Jon of course, who is constantly impatient at the slow rate their plans are progressing, but Jaime finds himself content to while away the hours in meetings and his nights outside Sansa’s door.

Daenerys’ dragons are torching any dead that get too close for now, picking them off bunch by bunch. Soon, enough of them will cross the border that they will be forced into combat, but for now Drogon has excellent aim.

He arrives at Sansa’s door that evening to find it swinging ajar. Alarmed, he steps inside to find Sansa staring out the window at the snow drifts in the dying winter light.

‘My Lady, is anything wrong?’

She turns towards him and her hair tumbles over her shoulders. ‘Ser?’

‘The door was open.’

‘Arya must have forgotten to close it as she left with Bran.’

The other Stark siblings, miraculously still alive. Jaime has been avoiding them both studiously. He has no doubt that Arya would happily run him through – and the guilt of seeing Bran, crippled and silent, eyes both vacant and accusing, is not something he wants to dwell on.

He has enough guilt.

‘I’ll close it on my way out.’

He goes to leave.

‘Jaime…’ 

‘Yes, my Lady?’

‘Will you stay? I don’t wish to be alone.’

He hovers by the door. ‘I’ll fetch Brienne for you.’

‘No, I want to talk to you.’

This time her words are much more direct and Jaime stops short. ‘If that’s what you wish.’

Sansa proffers a flagon of wine and a pair of glasses and hands him a full cup. He stands in the middle of the room still, unsure of what the Lady of Winterfell wants from him. She goes back to the window and watches the snow again.

She begins to talk with her back to him. ‘The battle is to be tomorrow. There is no helping it. Bran has told me. It’s destined, or something.’

For a second, Jaime blanches. They have talked so much, and done so little. They aren’t ready. And then peace washes over him. Tomorrow. It will be over tomorrow, perhaps. Or nearing the end. He will have played his part properly, by tomorrow.

‘We are ready, my Lady,’ he says.

Sansa turns, an eyebrow raised, goblet of wine in her hand. For a second she looks so much like Cersei that it takes his breath away. And yet, this time he doesn’t wish it were Cersei in her place instead.

‘Please my Lord, do not do me the dishonour of lying to me. I will not fall for that. We are not ready, but it doesn’t matter anymore whether we are or we aren’t. We must do it anyway.’

‘Indeed,’ he murmurs.

‘Have you heard from Cersei? Has she sent a raven?’

‘She hasn’t. no.’

‘Perhaps she will be the ruler after all, then. But she will rule over nothing but dead bodies and ice.’ Sansa’s smile is small and wry.

‘You will survive, Lady Sansa,’ he says.

‘I will not, if my family, my home is lost to me.’ She pauses and takes a sip of wine. ‘You do not intend to survive either, do you my Lord? I have been thinking that. You were far too eager to offer your services here.’

‘I made a promise to your mother.’

‘So Brienne has told me. A promise you mean to honour?’

‘Yes.’ He licks his lips – they are dry. ‘I do not intend to survive.’

She smiles then. ‘Your honesty is refreshing. Jon swears that we will all be together at the end of this, but I can read his eyes and he has the same outlook as you, Ser Jaime. Though he is afraid to tell me.’

Jaime says nothing. He will not offend her intellect once again. He drains his goblet instead. Sansa watches him as he swallows.

‘You can retire this evening before the battle tomorrow night, Jaime. I doubt Daenerys will send someone to harm me now. She has run out of time. Tomorrow none of it will matter.’

She reaches out and takes his goblet from him and her long slim fingers brush against his, ever so slightly warm. Cersei burned two degrees hotter than everybody else, at all times. Perhaps because she had spent so long in Kings Landing. Her heat was stifling.

‘As you like.’

‘I will think of you tomorrow, Jaime. I know we both agreed we no longer pray, so I hope you won’t mind that I have discarded my prayers, but I will think about you very hard.’

Jaime blinks, and his skin flushes, he’s sure of it. He brings a hand up to rub awkwardly at his beard, a new northern acquisition.

‘I do not deserve your thoughts, Sansa.’

‘Perhaps. But they are mine to give anyway. Good night, Ser Jaime.’

‘Good night, my Lady,’ he returns.

He closes her door behind him and walks back to his small room. He thinks, not of the battle tomorrow, not even of Cersei, but the fact that if in all of Westeros there existed a person who could think things into fruition, through sheer intelligence, goodness and determination – then it would probably be Sansa Stark.


End file.
